Page 6 of No Going Back

“Yeah, I know.” I inhale sharply, cutting him off.

Honestly, I just want him to stop talking for a minute. My head’s spinning… between what we just did, the fact I actually liked it, and now the reminder that my parents’ death anniversary is creeping up again. Brilliant timing.

We hit the ground floor and step out into the midday sunlight. It’s proper July heat… thick, humid Michigan summer air, that hits you like a wall the second the doors open. The sun beats down hard on the concrete path, cicadas buzzing loud in the trees lining the dorm walkway, and everything shimmers a little in the haze.

I tilt my face up, closing my eyes for a second as the warmth sinks into my skin. “God, that feels nice.”

Remy laughs, and I can hear him open his mouth to say something.

I point at him without even looking. “No. Way too soon for casual sex jokes, man.”

He holds both hands up, still chuckling. “I didn’t say anything!”

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We reach the sports building in just a couple of minutes, the short walk from the dorm cutting across the sun-baked quad. It’s quiet between us the whole way… no chatter, no jokes, just our sneakers on the pavement and the distant hum of campus. Normally that kind of comfortable silence is our default; we’ve spent years side by side without needing to fill every second with words. To Remy it probably feels completely normal… he seems fine, swinging his duffel, squinting into the bright July glare like nothing’s changed. But for the first time since I’ve known him, the quiet feels heavy to me.

The second we push through the doors into the locker room, the noise hits like a wave… guys shouting and laughing, lockers slamming. The team spots us immediately.

“There they are!” Marcus calls out, grinning as he pulls his practice jersey over his head. “Thought you two passed out again or some shit.”

“Fuck off,” Remy shoots back, laughing, and the room starts the usual chorus of hoots and backslaps.

Someone ruffles my hair as I pass, and then Harry barrels over and slings an arm around my shoulders. “QB looking sharp today. You ready to make us all look good?”

I roll my eyes, shoving him off playfully. “Always, man.”

It’s easy and familiar, the rough affection we’ve all built over years of grinding together. Remy and I get changed side by side like always: shirts off, pads on, cleats laced. No hesitation, no weird glances. I keep my back half-turned while I tape my wrists, focusing on the routine, and it almost feels normal.

We file out into one of the big indoor sports halls, the air-con blasting cold the moment we step inside.

Coach is already here, arms crossed, whistling sharply. “Too damn hot outside today, boys,” he barks. “We’re staying in where the AC can save your sorry asses from heatstroke.”

Everyone spreads out along the benches that line the walls, dropping water bottles. Coach claps his hands twice, the signal he’s about to start the rundown, and the chatter dies down. I stay standing, leaning casually against the wall near the end of the row.

Harry looks up at me and laughs. “Dude, sit down.”

I clear my throat. “I’m good, Harry.”

Coach’s eyes snap to me, narrowing. He likes order… everyone seated, everyone paying attention. He raises his brows and plants his hands on his hips, that silent warning we all know too well.

Before I can even brace, Remy’s hand clamps on my shoulder and yanks me down hard onto the bench beside him. “Dude, sit the fuck down or Coach’ll moan like a bitch,” he says, laughing like it’s any other day.

My ass hits the hard wooden plank and pain flares sharp and bright, like someone just lit a match inside me. I’ve never been penetrated before today, and everything back there is raw and sore. I just needed a little more time standing, for God’s sake. A whimper slips out before I can stop it. I bite my lips together hard, eyes watering instantly.

Remy glances back at me, realization dawning. He coughs to cover a laugh, eyes wide. “Ohhhh… shit. Sorry, man. You good?”

I just hum, “Mhmm,” and nod, staring fixedly at the floor, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

He pats my shoulder gently, leaning in so only I can hear. “Sorry…”

Coach splits us into two teams for a mini scrimmage, me captaining one side, Remy the other. The indoor hall is massive, built for days exactly like this: high vaulted ceilings that swallow the echoes of cleats on the polished hardwood, full-sized goalposts set up at each end, turf mats rolled out down the centre to protect the floor but still give us traction. Massive industrial fans hum overhead, pushing the cold air around, and the walls are lined with banners from past Big Ten championships. It feels like a cavernous arena, plenty of room for routes and blocks.

Today, though, Remy is giving me a genuine run for my money. He’s sharp… cutting harder, catching everything I throw at him, even when it’s off target, grinning wide every time he burns one of my defenders. He’s lighter than he’s been in weeks, bouncing on his toes, high fiving his teammates, laughing loud at every little thing. And I know exactly why: he finally got that release he was desperate for. The thought twists weird in my gut. I’m still weirded out by the whole thing, but watching him act so completely chill, like nothing even happened… makes me wonder why it’s eating at me this much, when he clearly doesn’t find it strange at all.

My team still pulls out the win, but only by a single touchdown. Close enough that the guys on Remy’s side are talking shit as we jog back to centre.

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